


Black - The Chimney Sweeper

by Niitza



Series: Volkslied Series [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Christmas fic, Destiel Advent Calendar 2014, Fluff, Gen, Kids, M/M, chimney sweeper!Dean, preceptor!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. It takes him a while, but Castiel finally finds his home for Christmas.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <b>(This work is part of a series of one-shots, so it stands on its own and can be read alone.)</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Black - The Chimney Sweeper

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This fic has kind of cracky premises, given that, going from the chimney sweeper theme (as determined by the principle of my Volkslied series) I imagined it as a Mary Poppins!AU. It didn't turn out that way, though. Also, I don't write or read RPF for various reasons, but something has to be said about the similarities between the names Mary Poppins and Misha Collins. The guy sure has something magical and/or angelic to him too, after all.
> 
> This fic is part of the [2014 Destiel Advent Calendar](http://destieladventcalendar.tumblr.com/), organized by [Emma](http://bionicwintersoldier.tumblr.com/). Thank you for everything ^^ And for everyone else, I hope you enjoy this.

Two weeks before Christmas, Castiel was called into Mrs. Shurley's parlor. The room, whose walls were lined with cabinets and covered with heavy hangings, was dark and cosy; she used it as an office, as opposed to a place where she entertained her close acquaintances with tea and light conversation. As a consequence it felt far more intimidating than it was supposed to be.

Mrs. Shurley invited her employee to sit down on the hard-backed chair facing her desk and smiled when she announced that she was giving him the weekend on which Christmas fell that year free. They wouldn't need him again before Monday morning, on the 26th of December. He could—and therefore should—spend the entirety of the festivities away from the Shurleys' home, with his own family.

As far as Mrs. Shurley knew, since they'd briefly broached the topic during Castiel's initial interview, the only family he had had stayed in Europe when he'd decided to try his chance and move to the New World. His brother Balthazar was in London, his sister Anna in Paris and his other brother Gabriel on one of his travels, probably in India. Castiel doubted his employer and her uncannily good memory had forgotten about these details. Obviously she had other reasons to wish him away on Christmas, reasons that she preferred not to disclose.

He briefly pressed his lips together. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to accept the so-called gift with the gracious show of gratefulness that was expected of him. The faint smile on his face reflected hers, neither of them reaching their eyes.

When he came out of the office the corridor felt colder, its light dimmer. The green of the carpet had lost its vibrant shade, the walls and ceiling seemed to have cramped down, as if to make him aware of how unwelcome he was. He may live here for all intents and purposes, have his own room, rise and eat and go to sleep at the same time as the whole family and its servants, but he didn't belong. Not when it mattered.

Mrs. Shurley had given him two weeks. It was nowhere near enough time to make arrangements, especially so close to the holidays.

He only realized he'd been standing in front of the children's open door, anxiously pondering his few feeble options, when Samandriel looked up and noticed his presence. The little boy smiled at him with the bright, boundless affection of childhood. Castiel returned it, smothering down the worry welling up in him, and stepped into the room to start the long process of putting him and his sister to bed.

 

*

 

In a fit of vexed rebellion against his employer, Castiel completely changed the children's lesson plan on the following day. Instead of having Samandriel work on his verbs and Rachel read a La Fontaine fable in its original language, he made them put on their coats after lunch and brought them to the botanical garden.

They weren't thrilled about it at first: the air was cold, slightly damp and the snow that had fallen overnight had already turned into dirty, slippery sludge, making it impossible for them to run around without risk. The park itself looked pitiful in its winter state, nothing but grey grass and withered plants, muddy paths and dark, naked trees creaking against the chilly breeze.

But the rundown alleys and the small, half-frozen lakes weren't Castiel's goal this time.

The children perked up as soon as they understood where they were headed and were smiling by the time their preceptor led them through the iron gates of the main glasshouse. Inside the air was still damp but much warmer, laden with the smell of humid earth and young foliage. Castiel helped Samandriel and Rachel take off their gloves, unbutton their coats and unwrap their scarves before he let them start on the narrow path running through the large building. It meandered among a riot of exotic plants, palm trees, heliconias, tree ferns, vines, cocoa and banana trees, so tall and luscious they often hid the way, forced Castiel to duck more than once as he hurried in order to avoid losing his pupils from sight.

They soon came back to take his hand, though, once the novelty had worn off and the questions crowding their minds had started to outweigh the curiosity of their eyes. Their pace grew more sedate so they could hear his answers. He gave them the names of the plants they pointed at and told them stories about the countries they came from, about the strategies their species had developed to grow and flourish in the tough competition of the tropical forest. A brush of fingertips against a leaf or a twig, and he heard, felt the whisper of the sap running inside it, the echoes of years and changes, of travels across continents and seas, which he recounted for the benefit of the young ears perked in his direction. They listened to him, quiet and fascinated, somehow never questioning his knowledge or its origins.

They circled through the main greenhouse, then went on to explore the smaller ones housing the mangrove and the ponds with waterlilies so large Samandriel could've curled up on them to sleep, cut off their stem to use them as a boat on a stream like Hop-o'-My-Thumb himself. By then the day outside was already fading, and with it the children's energy. Yet they insisted on dropping by the cacti and carnivorous plants, because a trip to the botanical garden couldn't be complete without that detour.

After that they obediently let him herd them outside. Clasping his hands, they followed the flow of people leaving the park until they reached its large, wrought iron gates whose spikes shimmered gold in a faint ray of sunlight. A bit further to the right, on the small place outside the entrance, a young man was standing, playing music on a barrel organ. He was there often enough that the worn cap slumping over his short cropped hair and the threadbare coat covering his shoulders were as familiar as the crooked smile curving his lips when he met the curious eyes of a child.

Castiel and his pupils stopped to listen to the piece he was playing, as they usually did. When it was over, and before Samandriel could tug on Castiel's sleeve and beg, the teacher gave him a coin so he could trot up to the musician and mumble his own request—this time a passage from The Nutcracker. He was obeyed with a grin. Samandriel watched in fascination as the man dug around for the paper roll he needed, as he inserted it in the instrument and started to turn the handle, bringing out the music.

At the end of the piece Castiel had to step forward to take Samandriel back. The little boy pouted but didn't protest as he gripped his teacher's outstretched hand, familiar with how things went. Castiel and the musician exchanged a look, a smile, followed by a tip of the young man's cap—the same silent salute he'd given since the first time they'd come here and seen him—, before Castiel turned away and took the children home.

 

*

 

On Sundays Castiel had most of the day to himself. He never failed to accompany the Shurleys to mass and therefore helped get the children ready on time, but after that the family left to call on friends and relatives, sometimes to go see an event, and their preceptor wasn't needed then. He used the time to run personal errands and take care of his belongings, mending his shirts, brushing his coat and shining his shoes. If he had the time he caught up on the newspapers which the maid, Meg, put aside for him over the week, unbeknownst to their masters; or he read a couple of chapters in one of the countless books he wanted to read. It always felt far too soon when the Shurleys came back, sometimes for dinner and sometimes afterwards, and he had to resume his duties by putting the children to bed.

Usually they were tired and didn't put up a fuss, especially since they enjoyed his presence far more than that of people whom they barely knew but in front of whom they'd had to behave impeccably for hours. Sundays were the days on which he told them the longest stories, stories from faraway countries, from remote centuries, which you would never find in any book since most of them had been lost a long time ago. Rachel and Samandriel were always eager to hear them and were ready to sleep in the blink of an eye, clad in their nightgowns and burrowed under their duvets before Castiel even had to ask. And when the story inevitably drew to a close, when Castiel turned off Samandriel's bedside lamp to shroud the bedroom in darkness, he pretended to believe the children asleep. He carefully stood up from the chair tucked between the beds and, with the flick of a hand, made the toys scattered throughout the room perk up. Dolls, wooden horses and tin soldiers stood up on their own to quietly march towards their corners and boxes and shelves, followed by rolling yo-yos and hopping cubes, until the floor was clean and everything in the room as it should be, ready to sleep.

After that Castiel left, pretending not to hear the awed gasps that the children often failed to contain, and closed the door behind him without a sound. Most of the time he'd then go down to the kitchen to eat with the rest of the servants—Nora, Meg and old Joshua—but this time he turned left instead, towards the narrow stairs leading to the upper level under the roof, where their quarters lay.

On the way he padded past Mr. Shurley's office, careful not to disturb the man. A light filtered under the door, accompanied by the faint scratching of a pen on paper and, from time to time, a frustrated mumble. The man was hard at work.

Castiel dropped by his room to fetch his coat and went up to the roof, hoping to retain some of the quiet he'd savored during the day while the family was gone. The night was cold and dark, but the clouds mixed with the smoke blowing up from countless chimneys hid the stars. Castiel huddled in his jacket and walked towards the edge, listening to the distant sounds of the city.

The golden light rising from the lamps on the street flickered and he knew at once that he wasn't alone.

He barely recognized her, so used to only rely on the limited senses of his human body that for a second her vessel fooled him. Then he blinked, and saw.

"Hannah," he greeted.

She smiled. "Castiel."

Several seconds passed, until Hannah realized that no matter how long she waited, he wouldn't give her what she was expecting, not even a question. She breathed in, lips still curved into a smile even as her dark eyes hardened.

"We were made aware of your… predicament," she said.

Castiel narrowed his eyes, wondering how that had happened, or even how she'd known where to find him. Had they been listening for his voice and had heard it among that morning's mass prayers? Or had they always been aware of where he'd landed, what he'd done then, where he'd gone since, and had only bided their time until the right moment came?

He remained silent.

"Surely you don't wish to spend Christmas night alone, out in the cold," Hannah forged on. "I was sent to remind you that you don't have to. That you always have somewhere you can go back to, and be welcome."

Castiel was aware of that, and he almost pictured it for a second: the splendor of light and song in Heaven as the angels celebrated God's first descent on Earth, the first time he'd entrusted them with the ether. He did miss it, missed the connection with his brothers and sisters, missed their voices.

But he also knew that going back there came with conditions. If he did, they'd not let him leave again. Or, if they allowed it, they would never agree to let him go entirely, would never accept his choice and set him free. They'd already tried to hold him back when he'd first taken his decision, after all. And it was now clear that they hadn't given up even after he'd escaped.

Besides, falling to Earth in order to share humanity's experience meant sharing its hardships too. It meant being lonely, at times. Often. It meant finding yourself in dire situations with no resources and no one but yourself to try and make it better. Castiel had known before he'd even made his choice that it wouldn't be easy, or nice. Human existence rarely was.

It didn't mean that it wasn't worth it.

"How long have you been waiting for such an occasion to arise?" he asked with an irrepressible bite in his tone.

Hannah straightened, piqued, but when she met Castiel's eyes, whatever she saw there made her falter.

"I wish you'd understand," she said. "We're only trying to help you."

Given the look on her face, the tone of her voice, it was clear that she genuinely did, beyond her mission as a messenger. She was sorry—as sorry as an angel in Heaven could be—to see him that way, isolated, reduced, estranged. She didn't like it. She only wanted him back, wanted him like she remembered him, wanted the commander he'd been, once.

But it had been before he'd come too close to humanity, before he had changed—something angels weren't supposed to do, and couldn't come back from.

"I wish you'd understand too," Castiel replied softly.

He turned away to signal that the conversation was over. The movement, the dismissal made him ache far more than her, he knew; but he relished that pain, because it was human, and it was his.

A shimmer to his right caught his attention and made him raise his head.

It had started to snow.

 

*

 

Mrs. Shurley was in a state of profound irritation the following day. The whole household was keenly aware of it before the morning was halfway through; Joshua hugged the walls and squirreled away as soon as he'd brought her her outdoor clothing.

Her stormy mood had Castiel carefully opt for not testing her patience: when she came by the library, tugging on her gloves and adjusting her hat, both Rachel and Samandriel were sitting down quietly, heads bent over their writing exercises. Mrs. Shurley nodded approvingly and informed her employee that, having to run a certain amount of errands that her good-for-nothing husband, obsessed as usual with his mediocre writing, had failed to accomplish, she'd be out for the whole day and eat outside at lunch.

"Also," she added when Castiel nodded, aware that he was meant to relay the information to Nora, the cook. "Michael will arrive on Saturday by the 4 o'clock train. Make sure to be at the station on time to fetch him."

"I will," Castiel confirmed.

"Good." She entered the room to kiss her children goodbye, then walked back out to climb down the stairs and leave through the front door, which Joshua hastily opened for her.

Silence settled once she was gone and it felt like the house itself was letting out a breath of relief.

 

*

 

If there was one thing to concede about Naomi Shurley, it was that she knew how to be obeyed. Not three days after her quarrel with her husband concerning his inability to fulfill his basic duties as head of the household, she signaled the servants that someone was to be expected to come sweep the chimney—as should've been done long before the start of winter. Given the time of the year it was a testimony to Mrs. Shurley's authority, efficiency and determination that she'd managed to obtain a visit that fast.

She left afterwards, headed to an appointment at the bank. It was windy outside. The weather had warmed enough to produce a mean mixture of rain and snow that fell diagonally and dissuaded anyone from going out without a good reason. Taking advantage of the quiet, Castiel settled the children down in the living-room, which had more windows and therefore more light than the library. He started with some reading, guiding Samandriel through his letters while Rachel took notes on a chapter from Dickens, and followed it up with a geography lesson after lunch.

They were halfway through the localization of the various French colonies on a unrolled world map when the doorbell rang. Castiel had heard Meg go upstairs shortly beforehand, where she was probably busy changing the bedsheets; Joshua for his part had left on an errand for Mr. Shurley—officially to replace an inkwell that had been knocked over, but all the servants knew that his actual purpose was to remedy the fact that their master had run out of opium the night before. As a consequence, Castiel took it upon himself to go open the door.

His surprise was great when, on the other side, he saw not a stranger, but the organist he and the children often saw at the entrance of the park. This time though, the young man was clad in the dark, dirty garments of a chimney sweeper, the soot covering his cheeks and forehead making his green eyes stand out. They widened in recognition, then crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

"Afternoon, sir," he quipped. "I'm here for the chimney?"

"Yes, of course," Castiel said, stepping back to let him in. The sweeping gear clanked when it was set down. "The fireplace is that wa-"

He paused when he turned, catching sight of two pair of curious eyes peeking around the doorway to the living-room. Clearly it hadn't taken long for Samandriel and Rachel to get distracted.

" _Ah, les enfants_ ," he said, falling back into the language in which he'd been teaching the lesson. " _Dites bonjour à monsieur_ …"

He trailed off with a glance at the newcomer, who somehow understood and supplied: "Winchester. Dean Winchester." His fingers flexed into the cap he'd taken off upon entering, as if to refrain from reaching out a dirty hand to shake.

" _Monsieur Winchester_ ," Castiel repeated.

The children obeyed, Rachel's mumbled greeting drowned out under Samandriel's enthusiastic lisping (" _Bon-shour-mon-shieuuuu_ "). Mr. Winchester grinned delightedly and threw back a "Hey, kids" accompanied by a little wave.

Castiel led him to the living-room where the main fireplace stood and led the children back to their table so that they wouldn't stand in the way while the man pushed away the nearest seats, put the grill to the side and covered the surrounding area with a sheet. By the time he was finished Meg had come down and offered to show him the other grates and stoves in the house before leading him up to the roof.

It wasn't until the sweeper had left the room that Castiel managed to make his pupils focus back on their lesson—and even then their attention kept straying.

"He's cleaning the chimney so that Santa can come down without getting dirty?" Samandriel asked instead of repeating the country names he'd been given—Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia. Castiel blinked and hesitated: he didn't like the habit humans had to lie to children, but at the same time he was reluctant to shatter the belief shining in the little boy's round blue eyes.

Rachel spared him from coming to a decision by huffing haughtily. "Don't be stupid, Santa doesn't come down any chimney, that's just impossible." Samandriel's expression faltered in dismay. Castiel prepared to intervene, but the girl went on: "He's far too big. I bet he makes himself smaller to do it, so that means it doesn't matter if the chimney is dirty or not, he doesn't touch the walls."

"And he makes the presents small too, so they're easy to carry and hide!" Samandriel approved with a gap-toothed smile.

"Children," Castiel interrupted.

They knew that tone of voice and quietened down at once. For a several minutes Castiel could lead them down Africa, one colony at a time—only to have his efforts reduced to nothing when, as he was asking Rachel to point at French Congo, as opposed to Belgian Congo, a faint scratching started resounding down the chimney, followed by clumps of soot suddenly falling down. Both Rachel and Samandriel giggled and Castiel straightened up with a sigh.

Clearly he'd have to give up for now.

Instructing the children not to come too close to the fireplace, he left them to drop by the kitchen and ask Nora to prepare some tea, with one extra cup. It was ready by the time Mr. Winchester came back down to gather the soot, cheeks and hands red from the cold. With a little bit of insistence, Castiel managed to persuade him to stay long enough afterwards, to warm up a little and enjoy his drink—although in exchange he had to agree to one condition: that he call the man by his first name.

"Then please, call me Castiel," he however insisted.

"Cas-ti-el," Dean repeated, tripping over the unfamiliar name. At the table, Rachel and Samandriel muffled their laughs behind their hands. "Is that a foreign name?"

Castiel felt a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth and hid it behind his cup. "You could say that."

"Yeah? Where're you from, then?"

The conversation, thus started, lasted a while. Castiel could see that Dean was far from comfortable: he sat at the very edge of his wooden chair—he'd refused to take any of the other ones, for fear to staining them—and held his cup very gingerly, as if afraid to break the delicate porcelain. His speech was slow and hesitant, as he was obviously trying to control it, smothering down his accent and slang, especially in front of the children. He kept tensing at the smallest noises. But he didn't break off the conversation either, asked questions and answered Castiel's.

It was very pleasant.

It came to an end, though: Joshua came back from his errand, prompting Dean to spring up from his seat after barely half an hour. This time Castiel didn't hold him back, aware that the young man had other houses to visit. He helped him gather the last of his things and accompanied him to the door.

"Have a nice day," he managed to say.

Dean paused on the doorstep to glance back with a blinding smile. "Same to you, Cas." Castiel blinked at the nickname. "I'll see you around."

After that, Castiel was the one who ended up having a hard time focusing on his lesson for the rest of the day.

 

*

 

A letter from Balthazar arrived the following morning. Castiel couldn't open it at once, of course, since the children required his whole attention. He'd rarely been so happy to put them to bed come evening. Voices rose from downstairs when he left their room: Mrs. Shurley was entertaining some company, while a faint gurgle coming from Mr. Shurley's study indicated that the man was still in there, splashing water on his face to try and clear his thoughts. Once in his tiny room Castiel took off his jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his tie before retrieving his mail.

He was unfolding the letter when it occurred to him that he may have been expected to wait until Christmas to open it. It was too late though, he reasoned, and he started reading at the light of a candle, for there was no electricity that high up in the house.

He was reassured at once that his brother was doing fine. Balthazar had carved himself a snug niche among the artist circles of London—living in decadence and sin according to the good society, an opinion that he, a fallen angel, found endlessly hilarious. His plans for the holidays were to retreat with a group of his friends to one of their country houses for a sojourn that'd be rife with celebrations, drink, philosophy, pleasure and art. There was no doubt he was set to perfection for the upcoming month. Castiel huffed around a smile.

The second half of the letter was slightly more worrying: Balthazar asked Castiel if he'd gotten any news from Anna as of late. His latest letter, in which he'd offered her to join him and his friends by taking the earliest ferry from Calais to Dover, had gone unanswered.

Castiel frowned minutely. It wasn't rare for Anna to disappear, to leave her modest lodgings in Paris to go visit Europe's various cities, but usually she informed Balthazar of it through a quick note sent from the places where she settled, however briefly. Besides, the unrest brewing around the Balkans had tarnished her latest journey in Vienna and Budapest, so that, as far as Castiel knew, she'd decided to stay put for the whole winter at least. She should've answered.

He bent over towards the chest that he'd wedged under the window—and which served as a storage for his belongings, a seat and a bedside table all at the same time—to dig out the box holding his mail. The last letter he'd received from Anna was dated back to the end of October, and had reached him less than two weeks later. He'd answered at once.

He reread her lines now, not seeing anything that'd come as an explanation. Lips pressed in worry, he replied to his brother, telling him what little he knew and wishing him a good stay in the English countryside. After that he wrote a quick message to Anna, asking for news.

He hoped for the best, but had some difficulties falling asleep that night.

 

*

 

Michael Shurley took after his mother—and had internalized most of the principles she'd instilled into him from the youngest age. At twelve he was of a grave disposition, focused on his studies and on his ambition to climb the social ladder through the abilities that they'd help him develop. Most of all, he didn't want to end up like his father, an absent man towards whom he felt the resentment of a neglected child and for whom his mother had little more than scarcely veiled contempt born from disappointment.

He'd been unsurprised on Saturday when the people waiting for him at the train station hadn't been his parents but a man he barely knew, more busy trying to keep his younger siblings in check than searching for the newest arrival in the crowd streaming from the fifth platform. Samandriel and Rachel's joy upon seeing him had brought a faint smile to his lips, but no sound of elation or excessive gesture. On the way back he'd been quiet, and had remained so while he'd unpacked his suitcase, during dinner and later still when he'd followed his mother to her parlor so that he could report on his progress at school.

Two days later that rigidness hadn't left him and Castiel was more or less certain that the only reason he wasn't protesting against the outing on which the preceptor had brought him instead of letting him read was that its purpose was to find presents for his parents. He respected them enough to consider it a worthy endeavor and tolerate the distraction.

But he remained aloof, silent while Samandriel babbled incessantly, passive while Rachel decisively led their small group from one shop window to the next, mind full of suggestions and criticism. It unsettled Castiel to see a child behave so little like his own age.

He tried to involve him in the process, an undertaking that proved to demand a lot of efforts for very little result. Still, he got Michael to approve of the fountain pen they chose for their father—the man's nervous hands went through them like a spoiled child through sweets—and even to peruse the displays at the milliner's in search for a hat that'd suit his mother's taste.

Castiel encouraged him and his siblings to choose well. Mrs. Shurley hadn't complained, but the preceptor had seen the bitter curve of her lips every time she ran her fingers along the worn brim of her current round hat—a symbol for her dashed hopes and the delicate situation in which their household was. With a husband unfit for work or even appearances among society, things weren't easy. She had no choice but to try and manage the fortune she'd inherited, investing it and relying on it instead of having it as a supplement to the income Mr. Shurley should've brought, had he kept the promising position in the administration that he'd occupied when she'd married him. A curse-like obsession for writing had befallen him instead, accompanied by headaches that only drugs could stave off. It had made him lose his responsibilities and with it all credibility. Mrs. Shurley was left to pick up the pieces, which she did admirably through a keen sense of the workings of the stock market and through the connexions she'd established herself—but it was taking its toll.

A nice hat with a dark red silk bow wasn't much, but Castiel knew that it'd help.

The children made their choice and Castiel paid with a combination of their gathered savings and a small input of his own. Once everything was packed he held the door for the children to file out, a small procession with Samandriel at its head, solemnly carrying the rectangular casing holding his father's present, followed by Rachel embracing the round hat box. Michael came last.

Castiel was just stepping out when, over the boy's dark hair, he caught sight of a familiar face on the other side of the street. Hannah stood there, at the corner of a building. People walked around her, avoided her without a glance, without even noticing her presence. She didn't move, didn't come closer, just looked at him—a silent reminder that Heaven was watching, that it knew of his situation and of its lack of improvement, that it was just waiting for him to come to his senses and come back.

Christmas was coming at the end of the week and Castiel still hadn't found a place where he could stay that night. All the hotels and inns were fully booked and he felt reluctant to take refuge in a church. It would feel too much like a concession.

Gritting his teeth, he turned away, suggesting to the children that they also buy a small bag of tobacco for old Joshua on the way back, to thank him for his services.

 

*

 

After the children had been put to bed that night, Castiel returned to the roof. This time the sky was cloudless, a dark veil pinpricked with the bright twinkle of stars, as sharp as the cold.

He wasn't surprised when he heard someone land on the roof behind him. He'd expected Hannah to come back after her brief appearance that morning, to try and convince him again. There was a reason why she'd been chosen for this: she wasn't one to easily give up, especially not on something that involved her convictions.

Yet when he turned, the person he saw wasn't the pale-skinned woman who served as his sister's vessel. The stature was that of a man, covered in dark clothes that made him difficult to see.

Castiel huffed out a breath when he recognized Dean.

The young man seemed equally surprised to see him, but after a while he came closer.

"Hey, there," he said, his teeth gleaming pale as he smiled in the shadows.

Castiel inclined his head in response. "Hello."

"What're you doing here?"

Dean stopped beside him, hands stuffed deep in his pockets to protect them from the cold.

"Enjoying the quiet," Castiel replied. "Taking care of children keeps reminding me how much I like it." He didn't mention that fleeing to the roof also had the advantage of bringing him away from Mrs. Shurley's controlling eyes.

Dean snorted. "Don't you tell me."

"What about you?" Castiel asked, feigning suspicion.

"Me?" Dean blinked, then his face opened as he realized what his presence on top of the Shurleys' house in the middle of the night might look like. "Oh, yeah, no worries," he laughed. "I'm not lurking on your roof with evil deeds in mind. I just prefer to use the upper way to go home, instead of going through the streets—it's safer at that time of night, you know? I think I found a shortcut when I came here the other day, so here I am."

"Here you are."

Dean smiled again. He turned so he was shoulder to shoulder with Castiel and watched the streets, watched the stars, as if trying to see what Castiel saw. He didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave.

"So, the holidays are right around corner," he said after a while. "What will you be doing? Enjoying the perks of your position by walking among society's finest for an evening?"

Castiel couldn't smother a laugh at Dean's sarcastic tone. "No, actually," he said, shaking his head. "Mrs. Shurley informed me I won't be needed on Christmas Eve."

"Oh, she gave you leave?" Dean was obviously surprised at such generosity.

"More like she strongly advised me not to be anywhere near her house on that day or the day after. I guess my overall appearance doesn't match the nice picture she intends to present her guests," Castiel said, gesturing at his coat with its frayed edges. He'd been sparing money, but still couldn't afford to replace it—or any other of his clothes, for that matter. He was careful with them and kept them clean, but it was obvious that none of them were new.

"So what, she's kicking you out?" Dean now sounded outraged. "Where'll you go?"

Castiel stared up at the north star and felt very tired and lost when he quietly replied: "I don't know."

"You don't have any family that could take you in?"

He shook his head. "My siblings are all in Europe, or farther east. And I'm not married."

He briefly thought of another family, that of the dead man whose body he now inhabited. Emmanuel Novak had been a quiet, devout man, humble and good. He'd been dying of consumption when he'd given himself over to Castiel and he was dearly missed by his wife Daphne, who fortunately had been able to remarry, and by his twin brother James, who now had a family of his own, a wife and a young daughter.

"What about your parents?" Dean asked slowly, as if already knowing and dreading the answer.

"We lost our father a long time ago," was all Castiel said.

He couldn't lie to himself, though: when he'd left Heaven to come to Earth, he'd had hopes… He'd been curious about humanity, yes, about their emotions and the vibrancy of their short lives—but underneath it all there had been a proud conviction that he had understood something that the other angels hadn't, the purpose behind God's order to love humanity above all. He'd thought that by sacrificing his wings, he'd get something in return. At his core he'd imagined that after he'd fallen, after he'd crashed and burned, his father would be there to help him up, to patch up his wounds, to soothe that excruciating pain. That He'd tell him that he'd done good, that he'd been right. That He was proud.

But there had been nothing—no sign, no confirmation that what Castiel had done had been the right thing.

Castiel was starting to understand that it was how things were here, how they always would be. It was what it meant to be human. They didn't know. No one knew. There was no obvious purpose, no sign. Just life.

None of this was easy to accept or to live with. Especially in times like these.

"Mine too," Dean murmured, drawing him out of his thoughts. "My mom… My mom passed away back when I was a kid, and then my dad just…"

He trailed off. Around them the night was silent, frozen.

"Jeez, why are we talking about this, anyway?" Dean said. He tried a smile, but even in the dark it looked forced, betrayed by the damp brightness of his eyes, by the waver in his voice. "Holidays are supposed to be a happy time, not to make you maudlin."

"They are an occasion on which you think about your family," Castiel pointed out while his companion rubbed his eyes. "And I don't know many things that can bring you that same kind of pain."

Dean snorted again. "True. But family ain't just that, is it? It ain't just the people you lost." He paused and bit his lips. After a couple of glances and an awkward shuffle, he added: "Hey, you know what? You could come help. At the orphanage, I mean. That's where I grew up and where I'll be on Christmas. We'll have a feast, or at least as close to it as we can, and we always need another pair of hands to prepare the food, and another pair of eyes to watch over the kids. And you can stay the night afterwards, if you need."

Castiel couldn't help but stare, his breath stuck in his throat while his heart thumped wildly, spreading warmth and pain all the way down to his fingertips. Dean quirked his eyebrows at him after a while, silently and anxiously prompting him for an answer.

"I…" He had to clear his throat. "I'd love to, Dean." A helpless smile took over his features. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Dean mumbled. He turned away to hide the flush on his cheeks.

They stood a long time side by side, silently looking up at the stars.

 

*

 

The event of the week was the arrival of the Christmas tree that Mrs. Shurley had ordered. She liked to have it delivered late into December, so that it would hold until New Year's. She supervised its installation in the living-room, but left while Meg swept the fallen needles and Joshua was still busy bringing out decorations. Neither servants lingered once they were done, so that afterwards only Castiel and the children remained.

There were decorations aplenty, white and golden ribbons, candy canes wrapped in a red bow, green holly and candles. Castiel showed Samandriel and Rachel how to make a knot with pretty loops, turned a blind eye when one or two sweets never made it to a branch—but surreptitiously took control of that box afterwards, for obvious reasons. When the time came he held Samandriel up over his head so the boy could tie the star on top. It turned out a bit lopsided, but Samandriel had the brightest, proudest smile on his face when he was put down.

Rachel insisted on being the one to light the candles they'd put among the branches, while her brothers set up the nativity scene under the tree.

"And the donkey, and the ox, and little baby Jesus," Samandriel listed, pointing at the figurines Michael was carefully placing in a circle. Castiel made sure that they were distracted, glanced at the entrance of the living-room to make sure that they were alone. Once he was certain of it, he cupped a hand around the candle he was holding and brought it to his lips. A blow of breath and the wick caught fire under Rachel's delighted eyes. She bit her lips to hold back a gasp and exchanged a secretive smile with Castiel, before he handed the flame to her so that she could light the tree.

Soon she'd be gone, off to a boarding school like her brother. Castiel already knew that he was going to miss her.

But for now, she was still here, and the tree was beautiful.

 

*

 

The candles, of course, had to be put out at night. After having put the children to bed Castiel went down to the living-room for that very purpose.

He'd just blown out the last one when he heard a voice behind him:

"Castiel."

He turned and saw Hannah standing in the corner of the room, shrouded in darkness. She was growing impatient, he could tell, and as a consequence less cautious. It didn't make him any more inclined to listen to what she had to say.

He turned away to leave the room without a word, but stopped when she spoke:

"I thought you should know that Anna is back among us. I know that you have been worried by her silence." Castiel threw her a glance over his shoulder. Her face was blank, any expression held carefully in check. "You could come see her, talk to her. Make sure she's all right." The look in her eyes softened. "I know what she means to you and that you haven't seen her in a long time."

"Stop, Hannah," he said gently, turning fully towards her. "You know that a happy reunion is not what you are offering."

He wondered what they'd told Anna, what they'd promised her, to make her come back. Of them all she'd been the most determined to leave and in her letters she'd always seemed so awed by what she saw and experienced on Earth. Hearing that she'd given up saddened and confused him.

"But it _is_ ," Hannah insisted. She stepped forward. "It would be. Heaven misses you. Your return would be the cause for such celebrations. We…" Her voice briefly failed her. "We want you among us. We want you to come home."

She stopped in front of him, eyes full of genuine concern. Castiel slowly shook his head. "Heaven is no home," he said. "It doesn't know how to be. That's what you don't—maybe can't—understand."

He couldn't make her, he'd realized. There weren't words to explain this. It was more of a feeling nestled deep inside him, like faith, or rather its absence. Castiel couldn't remember when he'd lost it, or how, but now it was irremediably missing, in him and, to him, in Heaven. He ached for it sometimes: the feeling of being complete, the quiet contentment of being where he was meant to be, of doing what he was meant to do, of being free of choices and, with it, of doubt.

But at the same time the mere thought of returning was intolerable, no, unfathomable. It all felt so… foreign, now. Something had broken and there was no going back, not for him—unless he gave up on what he was, what he'd become, on all that he'd found and learned: pain, fear, exhaustion, but also joy, wonder. Love. An endless array of emotions reflecting in sharp contrasts, in thousand colors off the shards of his former self.

Hannah couldn't see that. She only perceived what he'd deprived himself of. She didn't know all he'd gained. She didn't realize that what he'd become wasn't worse, or even better. Just different. Irremediably so.

"I won't go back," he said, low but firm.

She protested at once. "Castiel, please-"

"I _can't_ , Hannah." Her carefully constructed facade cracked and his voice came out softer when he repeated: "I can't."

"But…" She floundered for words, couldn't find them. Castiel delicately took her hands in his. Her gaze dropped to them when she felt the warmth emanating from his body, so unlike the unyielding cold of her borrowed skin.

"I am all right," he assured her, looking earnestly into her eyes. "I can't explain it to you in a way that'd make you understand. But I am."

"How can we- How can I know that?" she asked. "You're cut off from us."

Castiel hesitated, but decided to take his chance: "Maybe I can show you. If you want."

"What do you mean?"

"Come with me on Christmas Eve," he entreated. "Watch and see. Maybe it'll help put your mind at rest. Maybe then you can all let me go."

He wasn't expecting her to accept. Yet she did.

 

*

 

Castiel left the Shurleys' home right after lunch on the 24th. Both Samandriel and Rachel protested vehemently against his departure and only agreed to let him go after he'd promised thrice that he'd be back to wake them up on Monday.

On the way down the stairs he crossed paths with Mr. Shurley, who was making a rare appearance for the occasion but clearly feared that his health would reduce his efforts to nothing before the day was through. When they shook hands Castiel briefly focused, sending what little grace he could to soothe the man's ever-present headache. Hopefully it'd be enough for him to at least be there for his children and make it through dinner.

He took his bag, exchanged a few words with Meg, a smile with Joshua, put on his hat and went. Hannah joined him at the first corner, taking his arm so that they could cross the street towards the nearest trolley station. Her vessel's resemblance with the late Emmanuel Novak was uncanny, Castiel realized: they both had dark hair and dark blue eyes, sharp cheekbones on an overall round face; their clothes were similarly modest but clean. All in all they looked like just another pair of siblings on their way to their parents' or friends' house.

The orphanage, when they reached it, was in a state of overcrowded chaos. There were children and their caretakers, but also a distinct amount of people who'd been invited the same way Castiel had been—former inhabitants like Dean, single mothers and a couple of old people who hadn't anywhere else to go.

Castiel and Hannah were recruited to help with nary a question and soon found themselves separated. He sat in the kitchen for nearly an hour, helping peel a large amount of potatoes and boiling cabbage, before Dean came by and was thus made aware of his presence. He beamed upon seeing Castiel, uncaring for the state in which he found him—with his shirtsleeves rolled up and creased, his hands smeared with juice and peels, his hair a mess, his brow damp and his cheeks flushed by the steam billowing from the large pots on the stove.

Dean was carrying a bag, which he was proud to announce contained enough cheap cuts of meat to make a good quantity of stock. He'd apparently managed to obtain them from the butcher at half price.

Since he was finished with his potatoes, Castiel helped him cut up the meat and set it up to simmer in water until dinner time. As they worked, Dean spoke to the people around them, making a tally of what had been done and what remained to accomplish. After a while Castiel realized that his two main conversation partners—a bearded man who had lost the use of his legs but certainly not his authority and a no-nonsense woman whom Dean treated with fearful respect—were actually the heads of the orphanage themselves, who had no qualms about getting their own hands dirty and take an active part in the preparations.

He obtained their names—Mr. Singer and Mrs. Harvelle—from Dean once they'd been chased out of the kitchens and sent to help set up the dining tables. On their way there, in the day room, Castiel found Hannah, who'd been roped into reading a book for a group of children. She was profoundly ill-at-ease, shoulders tense under the constant onslaught of cries and squeals, flinching every time a little boy or girl tugged at the hem of her dress to ask a question. Her relief was clear when she noticed Castiel and she was all to happy to switch place with him when he offered. The prospect of placing cutlery and plates on a wooden surface was understandably less intimidating to her.

Reading to Samandriel and Rachel—both very demanding listeners—had given Castiel a lot of practice. He knew how to read, how to pause at the right moments, how to ask questions that'd draw out the most passionate answers and elicit the brightest smiles. Soon he had a wide, captivated audience, not only of children but also of several adults who had settled close to sew clothes and shine shoes, or even paused in their tasks to listen.

There was a lot of clamoring for an encore when the first fairytale came to an end, then the second, then the third. After a while, since the number of leftover stories was growing thin, Castiel started to pretend: he leafed through the book and stopped on a page, but the stories he told weren't the one written there anymore. They were among his lost legends, stories that Mary herself might have told her son to put him to sleep at night.

At some point, Dean had come back from the dining hall, Hannah in tow, and had settled against the doorjamb to listen with a smile. When the last story came to an end and the workers declared that it was time for the children to go freshen up, he sidled up to Castiel.

"Don't remember these being in that book," he pointed out, glancing down at the volume Castiel still held in his hands. "God knows I read it aloud enough times to know it cover to cover."

Castiel briefly froze, feeling a wild jab of panic, as he always did when he was caught. He managed to smother it into a smile. "I have a very vivid imagination."

"Then you should be a writer, instead of waiting hand and foot on evil stepmothers."

"Mrs. Shurley isn't evil and she is my pupils' biological mother," Castiel laughed.

"You know what I mean," Dean retorted, nudging his shoulder against Castiel's. "Come on, you look like you could use a little freshening up of your own and I have a comb."

Hannah had a strange, thoughtful look on her face when he glanced in her direction, but she waved him away, signaling that she was all right and that he could go. Reassured, he led Dean to the small room where he'd left his bag, coat and hat when he'd arrived, after which he followed him up two flights of stairs and around a corner until they reached a small room with two narrow beds, a cupboard and a sink. Dean gestured towards the empty mattress on the right.

"Here, you can have that one," he said. "Usually my little brother takes it but he couldn't make it this year, so…"

"Where is he?" Castiel asked as he hanged his coat on a hook at the back of the door.

"Sam? He's on an apprenticeship with a lawyer. The guy took him in to repay a favor to Bobby." That was the name Dean used to talk about Mr. Singer, Castiel remembered. "Sam couldn't afford to go to school, so he'll never become a lawyer himself, but he's a smart kid and apparently being some sort of clerk's enough for him. Anyway, thing is, that apprenticeship is on the other side of the country, all the way down in California."

"That must be hard, having him so far away," Castiel murmured, as he perceived that Sam meant a lot to his older brother.

Dean shrugged and bent over the sink to splash water on his face. "Yeah, well. Your family's on another continent. I guess that's even worse."

Castiel refrained from protesting that it was undoubtedly different and instead straightened his sleeves the best he could. He washed his hands and face, made good use of the comb Dean had mentioned and by the time a woman with bright red hair, who introduced herself as Charlie, came by to fetch them he felt a little more presentable.

The children were already sitting at the two long tables—one for girls and one for boys—, all in their best clothes, talking excitedly in wait. As a guest Castiel was ushered to the upper table where the adults were sitting and where he found Hannah again. She nervously smiled at him but appeared more relaxed than before. She was sitting beside a kind-faced woman and across from Charlie, who both made sure to include her into the conversation without forcing her to take part in it more than she wanted. Castiel took the seat on her left to show his support and was pleased when, as soon as the stock was served and the bread distributed, Dean came to sit across from him, on Charlie's right.

Mr. Singer obtained silence so he could say grace and afterwards, they began to eat.

 

*

 

Hannah stayed until dinner was over.

"I think I understand," she said while carefully buttoning up her vessel's coat. She and Castiel stood alone in the entrance hall. A couple of rooms away they could hear the children complaining at the suggestion that they go to sleep, excited as they were after a rare good meal and at the prospect of Santa Claus coming during the night. "Or at least, I understand part of it. I don't understand what you see in them, or why you think you belong with them instead of us, but…" She met his gaze. "The way you were with those children, with that man. You love it. You love them. Being here, it makes you… happy."

She stumbled over the word, as if the whole concept was unfamiliar to her. In a way, it was. Angels didn't know happiness. They didn't know misery either. These were two inherently linked extremes, one of the many pairs that had no place in Heaven's peaceful eternity.

"It does," Castiel said.

Hannah smiled and took a step back.

"I'll get her back home," she said, gesturing at her vessel. "I realize her family must be missing her."

Castiel nodded and accompanied her outside, where he watched her silhouette walk away into the night. He wasn't worried for her—there were very few things on Earth that could hurt an angel—but her departure had something final to it. He knew she wouldn't attempt to bring him back again, might even prevent others from trying.

It felt like he was letting go of Heaven and of the family he had there all over again.

"Cas?"

He startled and turned around, catching sight of Dean standing in the doorway to the orphanage.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Castiel realized he was standing alone in the icy night with nothing but a flimsy jacket covering him.

"Ah, yes. I just got lost in thoughts."

Dean quirked his lips in understanding, but gestured for him to come back inside.

"Come on, you must be freezing. You'll catch your death out there, it's about to start snowing again."

He firmly closed the door as soon as Castiel obeyed and made a point of rubbing his arms and hands to bring the circulation back in them. Castiel let him, the numbness in him being replaced by gratefulness.

Dean didn't ask about Hannah. No one would, Castiel knew. No one would wonder about where she'd gone, even though she'd sat at their table, shared their meal, taken part in their conversations. Careful as ever, she'd already removed herself from their memories, gentle and discreet.

It would be like she'd never been here.

 

*

 

Once Dean deemed Castiel warmed enough, he brought him to the kitchens so that they could help with the clean up.

While they'd been gone, someone had thought it funny to hang a twig of mistletoe over the entrance, so that when Dean came in and stopped there to hold the door for Castiel, people started to laugh and jeer—especially the ones who had started on the few bottles of wine they had managed to gather. Dean's first reaction, which was to protest, only made matters worse, until Castiel decided to take the lead.

He leaned in to kiss Dean on the cheek, eliciting cheers and earning himself a brief, flushed smile.

He felt the urge to kiss that smile too, want gripping him tight, but he refrained, aware of where they were, of what humans considered acceptable in this time and place—even though Dean was beautiful, inside and out, in a way that was timeless, universal. Even though Castiel had felt that pull towards him since the first time he'd seen him, a young man in a worn cap playing a barrel organ only to make children smile.

 

*

 

Cleaning and drying the dishes took a long time—but from the sound of it it had nothing on how tiresome and disorganized the process of putting the children to bed was.

They were drying the last pots and lids when the various floor supervisors started to trickle in, every single one of them collapsing on a chair with a sigh or a groan. Mr. Singer poured them one glass of wine each, then repeated the process with the dishwashers once they were done.

"I can't believe we still have to set the tables for tomorrow morning," Dean mumbled as he picked one of the glasses to put it in front of Castiel and drew a second one towards himself.

Several people nodded but no one actually answered. Several minutes passed, during which they simply sipped at their drinks in exhausted silence.

There was a series of heavy knocks at the front door.

The people around the table exchanged glances, no one willing to move. In the end, and as another volley of knocks resounded, Dean rolled his eyes and stood up. Castiel followed.

On the stoop was a tall figure, tightly wrapped in an old coat, a scarf and a hat so that only the eyes were visible. It carried a large, ratty bag over one shoulder and was half-covered in the snow that fell and twirled outside.

For a second Castiel felt the world tilt, like the reality he thought he was in had wrapped and Santa Claus himself was standing before him. But-

"Sam?" Dean said.

The newcomer shouldered his way in and tugged down his scarf, revealing a wide smile.

"I can't believe it," Dean exclaimed, starting to smile and drawing his brother into a firm hug with no care for how the snow clinging to the man's coat dampened his clothes at once. "What are you doing here? I can't believe it!"

Sam let out a happy laugh. "I know, right?" he said when they parted. He put down his bag, took off his cap and gloves and started unbuttoning his coat. "Mr. Devereaux kicked me out. I mean, he didn't fire me, but he gave me a couple of train tickets and told me not to show my face again until after New Year's, so here I am."

"Here you are," Dean said, reduced to repeating his brother's words. He relieved him of his outdoor gear so that he could greet and hug the people who'd come to see what the commotion was about and were all extremely glad to see him.

"It happened fast," Sam kept explaining. "The tickets were for the following day, I didn't have the time to let you know." And: "I had to walk all the way from the train station, in this weather!" And: "I'm dead on my feet, though, I've been traveling for over three days."

Everyone was quieting down and Dean was gesturing at Castiel to come closer so he could introduce him when a squeal pierced the ear—a very much not-adult squeal.

The noise had brought out the most curious of the children, the less fearful of punishment. As it turned out, Sam was very popular among them too.

Soon all of them were up again, no matter what their caretakers did or said.

 

*

 

In the end, Castiel barely got a wink of sleep that night. After going through the long process of putting the orphans back to bed a second time—some only convinced by the threat that Santa wouldn't come, as they cared little for that of the stick—he helped Dean and the others set the table for breakfast and put a small gift in each plate: an orange, a licorice stick or a candy cane, depending on each child's tastes, as far as they could remember them. Dean especially was careful about it, even as he mumbled that children changed their minds faster than the wind switched directions and that the following morning would undoubtedly devolve into a wild bargaining fair.

After that it felt like there was little sense in going to sleep. Besides, Castiel felt reluctant to take Dean's bed even though he'd offered, since Sam had gone up to their room and collapsed on the other one, barely taking the time to throw a sheet and blanket on it before he was out like a light.

Little by little the other adults retreated for what little was left of the night, while Castiel and Dean stayed in the day room, lounging on one of the old sofas and a worn leather armchair. The lamps had been turned off, so that the only light came from the fire burning in the grate. Its glow danced red and gold on Dean's features, softening them and darkening his eyes to match his deep voice.

They talked in interspersed sentences, too tired to hold a proper conversation. After a while Castiel took off his shoes so that he could lie down without dirtying the fabric on which he'd settled. After a while Dean went to fetch a knitted blanket folded on a chair near the door to wrap it around himself.

After a while, they both fell asleep.

 

*

 

Dean shook him awake shortly before dawn.

Castiel rubbed his eyes and grumbled, but didn't resist when Dean helped him into his coat and took his hand to lead him… somewhere.

The whole orphanage was quiet; not even Mrs. Moseley, the cook, was up. They tiptoed their way up, past the room where Sam was still snoring, over two more flights of stairs followed by a ladder, through a dusty attic and a round window. Dean went first, moving with the agility born from habit, then had Castiel hand him over the blankets he'd brought before he helped him out and onto the roof.

It had stopped snowing some time during the night and in the faint light of pre-dawn every surface was covered with a smooth blanket of silver. Castiel clasped Dean's hand tightly as they walked across the flat roof, more for warmth than to prevent a fall in case he slipped. He could almost see the child that his companion had been and who'd undoubtedly clambered among these very same chimneys in the past, even if it wasn't allowed.

They stopped at the edge, near the corner pointing south-east. There Dean pushed the snow away to free enough space for them to sit on the parapet, over which he threw one of the blankets so that they could sit without getting their trousers wet. The second one went around their shoulders once they'd settled.

The sun was close to the horizon, lining it with white and painting the snow on top of the highest buildings a pale pink. The city was still, as if waiting with bated breath for the first ray to shake off the icy spell of the night and recover its usual rhythm.

Dean bumped his shoulder against Castiel's. "Merry Christmas, Cas," he said.

Castiel smiled and replied: "Merry Christmas, Dean."

Together, they watched the sun rise.

 


End file.
